“I must speak to Barthet.” Dowser thrust his hands deep into his sleeves and made for the door. “Those esoteric manuscripts he found may hold valuable information, if only we can tease out the threads of truth from the tapestry of legend.”
Oleander shot Sunder an unreadable look, slapped the diary into my hands, and left on Dowser’s heels. Sunder moved to follow her, but I caught his sleeve.
“Are you all right?” I murmured.
His eyes snapped with frost and pain. “Perfect.”
I frowned. “Is this about my cousin?”
“Unsurprisingly, D’Ars is still a prig, but no.” He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “We caught a Red Mask disguised as a palais servant, sneaking through the service corridors. She carried another painted blade. We can only assume her target was you.”
Fear spangled white-hot against the back of my eyelids.
“She—?”
“She’s dead. She was wounded in the struggle, and then—”
He flexed his fingers and put his hand to his side, gritting his teeth. “I’ll redouble the palais perimeter patrols, but we have to assume they’re going to keep coming for you. Don’t go anywhere without Calvet and Karine—they’ll protect you even if I can’t.”
My fingernails bit into the leather cover of Severine’s diary and a spear of sorrow slashed my heart. “Sunder—”
“Don’t worry, demoiselle. I won’t let them hurt you.”
“It’s not me who’s hurting right now,” I breathed.
“I just hoped, once we took the throne—” His eyes went wide and distant, gazing toward something I couldn’t see. Then he squeezed them shut and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I just need to rest.”
He bowed, breathed a kiss across my cheek, and walked out.
That Nocturne I struggled to sleep. I stared at my comatose sister’s diary, wild with a thousand doubts and questions. Finally, I flipped the book open.
… I would take his burden away forever, if I could. But I cannot. So I will bear it for him.
I snapped the diary shut. A creeping certainty wreathed my chest—I’d witnessed a secret never meant for me.
When at last I found sleep, I dreamed I looked into a shattered mirror and saw Severine’s face staring back. My hands were covered in my own blood, and that’s when I knew I was the one who lay dying.
The Atrium—with its faceted skylights, raised dais, and fluted pillars—had been nearly destroyed during the coup, marooning the Amber Throne amid ruin. The din of hammers and chisels spun hot between my ears as I strode past the hulking throne. Images slid sharp fangs along my memories—Severine presiding over her court while a girl with soaring dreams and uncompromising fierceness demanded a place to belong. She had been so sure of what she deserved, never stopping to see the flaws in her perfect world. Never stopping to see the flaws in herself.
Show me what you dream, when you dream of new worlds.
I squared my shoulders and hurried on.
The antechamber I’d converted into a temporary throne room was lined in narrow windows paned with translucent ambric geometry. Pale statuettes stood in the corners—two male and two female, half draped but mostly nude. Ruby designs fell from the windows, illuminating glittering shapes upon their pale bodies and faces—a sharp-edged heart above a muscular chest, a brittle sword across outstretched hands, a pointed crown resting upon an uplifted head.
I’d only found this room because the blast that destroyed the Atrium shattered its locked doors. Dowser wasn’t fond of me receiving supplicants and petitioners here, but I’d insisted on it. Part of me whispered that this room had belonged to my father, and it was Severine who locked it away. But mostly I liked these inexplicable statues with their voiceless gifts stamped on them in amber and dusk. They made me feel less alone.
I took my seat in the simple, straight-backed chair I’d had placed at the end of the room, spreading my dusky skirts around me. My retinue filed in after me—Dowser, hovering over my left shoulder and whispering facts about Gavin I was too nervous to heed; Lady Marta and Barthet conversing in heated tones by the door; Sunder off to the side, too far to touch yet close enough to miss.
And finally, Gavin d’Ars walked through the doors, flanked by a dozen armed men in surcoats of kembric and red and an older gentleman with a face like the sharp end of a sword.
Gavin looked older than me by a few tides—twenty-one, if I had to make a guess—and tall. His air of boyish mirth belied a forceful, muscular stride that spoke of a lifetime of combat training. His eyes swept the room—I caught him looking askance at my motionless marble companions—but then he caught my gaze and held it, smiling as he walked closer. I maintained eye contact, sweat itching at the collar of my dress.
“Your Grace,” said Dowser, stepping forward and gesturing to me. “May I present—”
“Cousin!” Gavin brushed past Dowser and bowed over my hand. His palm was warm. I jumped when his lips grazed my fingers. “You honor me with this audience. I didn’t expect you to receive me so soon.”
“I saw you arrive,cousin,” I returned, more tightly than I’d intended. “I only hope you’ll forgive me for waiting a whole day.”
